Reckless
by Gin-kyo
Summary: Guts pulls Griffith out of the freezing cold river and he must act quickly to save his life. Leave the thinking for later. Branch AU


**Reckless**

They fell from a great height and pierced the churning white surface below. The furious, icy river took Griffith from the hook of Gut's arm like a toy ripped away from a child.

Guts surfaced almost immediately, gasping and growling. He thrashed wildly, half-blinded by the stinging cold spray and reached out with his free arm. Underwater, his open hand balled around solid waves of flowing fabric. Griffith's cloak.

Caught him, Guts knew from the weight of a heavy body that tugged on his shoulder. But those gold clasps would not hold long in this current. He dragged the limp form of his commander into the tight hold of his right arm and curled his fingers to lock into the lames of his armor. The river would never claim Griffith so long as he had him in his arm, but still, it threatened to drown them both, or dash them against the rocks.

A mighty effort was demanded for swimming to shore. Not even swimming, really, but dragging with his sword, kicking his legs, choking, taking breaths from the spray of aerated white water when he could. Guts could barely keep his own head above water, let alone worry about Griffith. The smooth metal slope of his visor was pushing uncomfortably under his jaw.

Kick. Breathe. Fight. The sheer naked will to survive seized his body and mind. His grip stayed solid.

When the river was shallow enough, Guts dug the blade of his sword into the rocky bottom and anchored them against the flow. He hacked the water from his lungs. Griffith however, was silent and cold and heavy against him. His neck like a hinge, head fell forward, drawn to his chest. For a moment, with his visor down like that, he appeared as just a vacant suit of river-washed steel.

"Griffith!" he yelled and jarred him roughly in his embrace. No effect.

Guts heaved them up the slick side of the bank, loosened his sword and from the riverbed and fell upon his chest, breathing heavily. Rivulets streamed off his body, but the pounding of hard rain that soaked his back made if feel as though he never left the water.

He yanked Griffith fully out of the river, up the slope and dropped him down none too gently, as if in hopes that he could still jolt him awake. His armor and water-heavy cloak weighed him down, sucked white steel into a slight casing of mud. Guts threw off his own helmet before lifting Griffith's head and pulling away the steel hawk visage. Curtains of silvery hair were plastered over his cheek, sticking across partly opened mouth and over damp nostrils. He looked frozen…almost, trapped in the mid-cry of a command. He wasn't breathing.

Guts cursed loudly over the constant drone of driving rain. Fuck. Fuck. No.

His core shook with fear and cold but his fingers worked with deft, automatic efficiency. He sat Griffith up, ignoring that his head lolled pathetically to the side. He worked to unlatch the leather straps and separated the breast and back plates from his torso. He beat him on the back a few times before laying him (more gently this time) to the ground.

He swept the wet hair away from his face, tilted his head back. Steady. Guts took a deep breath, despite his own stinging throat and starved lungs.

He covered Griffith's mouth with his own and blew life into his lungs. But their faces were too wet and Griffith's lips too pliant, too slick to form a proper seal between them. Guts cursed again. He felt clumsy smashing Griffith's lips uselessly. Urgency made him shake. Fear and anger and frustration welled up inside him to see Griffith as still as death.

…Tears. Tears were streaming down his face? Why this? Hot paths blazed through the chilled wetness the coated the entirety of his skin. Guts grit his teeth. Great. As though he needed more water right now. As though that could save a drowned man.

He watched beads of icy water slide over the pale curve of Griffith's throat, so prone and plainly presented. Guts thought he saw a small bob of hopeful movement and scrambled.

He braced Griffith's head in both hands and sealed their lips.

Some weak sputtering, some choking. Guts pulled him up by the back of his arms again, hit him on the back ribs once, very hard, perhaps too hard, and finally Griffith started heaving water.

He coughed and hacked. It sounded terribly painful, but the sound made Guts weak with gratitude. When Griffith had spit out half a lake and was reduced to only desperate gasps, he lifted a hand to pat Guts on his shoulder. Weak, but it was the familiar gesture of don't worry. A touch of comforting approval. It seemed to be the only thing he could manage having just returned from the edge of death. Then he fell back into the mud with a squelch. Puffs of white vapor formed over his mouth as he gasped softly and his eyes fluttered closed. He faded into murky consciousness.

Guts leaned forward and placed his lips to Griffith's. Breathed his rattling exhales, tasted the river on his tepid mouth. He felt hot paths roll over his skin.


End file.
